Hidden Murder: Murder Mysteries

By T M Goble

In the immersive English murder mystery, "Hidden Murder," Zoe longs for the simple joys of friendship, but a haunting past has kept her locked in a world of loneliness. As a newfound confidence begins to emerge, she is faced with a relentless campaign of fear and intimidation that threatens not only her, but also the newly formed bonds of friendship she cherishes.

Haunted by a malevolent force determined to drive her away, Zoe is left with a critical decision to make—should she flee from the sinister spectres that lurk in the shadows, or summon the courage to confront her fears and fight back? With each scare, the net closes around her, tightening its grip on her newfound sense of belonging.

Tragedy strikes when a chilling incident culminates in a death that Zoe firmly believes is murder, though the police remain indifferent to her claims. The authorities don't trust her, and her friends begin to question their allegiance to her as the pressure mounts.

As the walls close in on Zoe, she becomes determined to unearth the truth, no matter the cost. Turning to a recently released serial criminal for assistance, she embarks on a perilous journey to reveal the sinister forces at play and unravel the mysteries that threaten to consume her life.

In "Hidden Murder," Zoe's quest for justice intertwines with the complexities of trust and deception. Will she manage to convince the police of the murder, or will her relentless pursuit of truth lead her into an even greater danger? Join Zoe as she navigates a labyrinth of secrets and lies, where friendships are tested, alliances are forged, and the truth remains hidden beneath layers of deception.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Creative Peak
• Release date: Feb 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224708925

Book preview

01

I stand silently, scanning the room in my cottage. The mindless destruction spreads everywhere through the private space where my life is based. A violation. What deserved this attack on my life? A lump grows in my throat. The computer lay in pieces, strewn and trampled into the carpet. The burglars had ripped apart the cameras and their insides had been gouged out and smashed. They had kicked in the bank of hard disks under the desk.

As the scan ends, my eyes move to the shelf. The flying camera remains in the box. New, unopened and untouched. It’s value is greater than any other object in the room. Why not smash it? The burglars had a strange approach. Even if they did not destroy it, why didn’t they steal it?

My face twitches at the intrusion into my cottage and my workroom. Gulping, the tension jags my breathing, but tears are not my way. I survive life’s blows. My teen years in five different foster homes nearly overwhelmed me, but I fought for an independent life. A wailing girl in the corner gathered no sympathy, so that was why I stopped the tears. Then the loneliness in the hostels, but I fought back at the drunks, druggies and perverts. There would be no tears. I couldn’t feel sorry for myself. That was in the past. I kick the mess on the floor. The police will say that I shouldn’t have touched anything, but I don’t care.

Who broke into my cottage flashes across my mind? I do not have enemies. I am a loner. No friends and no enemies. Could it have been a rival? Some don’t like me. Most are bullish men idiots, but a twenty-five-year-old female at the heart of sports action photography frightens them. They think the domain belongs to me, but it does not as it is my field. I am beating them. My new ways will kill off the straggling rivals, but most have already lost ground on me.

I sneer at the mess. Kids? Yobs? Unlikely in a small village. Anyway, the local young lads fancy me and would do anything. No, not them. They would protect, not trash the place.

Studying the mess of the broken equipment, the damage has been crude. A hammer. Rounded marks have been tattooed into the metal. The equipment had been trashed, but the room had not been wrecked.

The cold half-filled cup of coffee hadn’t been upset. On the windowsill, the vase of my favourite flowers remained untouched. I can have flowers and no one would destroy them.

Had anything been stolen? I concentrate but my throat constricts. My face screws to prevent the tears, but I will not allow them to come. The forcing to control my emotions brings a cold sweat. I reach in the pocket of my fleece for a handkerchief and my hand closes on a camera. A cheap, small, snappy little thing. I had two. The one in my pocket. The other was on the desk. It has gone! Why steal the cheapest camera in the room when there were others worth thousands?

Whoever wanted to destroy my work had tried hard. A small smile creeps across my face. Every single shot I had ever taken since becoming a professional photographer had been backed up in two different places away from the cottage. Only I know the locations. My smile grows. I’ve won! I reach for my mobile to ring the police, but wonder whether I have won the fight or only the first round.

02

‘The burglar is a nutter as they like wrecking!’ The uniformed police constable stares at the mess as he waits for a response.

I will not humour him. ‘It’ll be a long time before you are called Sherlock.’ I turn and walk from the room, leaving him with the destruction. Sneering at the kitchen work surfaces as they are covered with fingerprint dust, I switch the kettle on to make coffee. I walk through to the old scullery.

‘This is where the burglars broke in.’ The police detective examines the external door frame.

‘Brilliant deduction, Holmes! The crowbarred lock does not give me a clue.’

He stops examining the lock and stands up. A tall man, slim, with dark hair. A detective with cheap shopping centre clothes. Only mid-thirties, but the boring clothes age him by ten years.

‘Why are you a pain?’

Opening my eyes wide. ‘You should be sympathetic. I’m the victim and could be in shock.’

‘Total rubbish. You have not hampered what we are doing...’

‘Very little...’

‘You haven’t hampered, but are not the most cooperative victim we’ve ever had.’

‘The police have been here for two hours. Fingerprint dust is everywhere, which only confirms that I live in the cottage. Even the dimmest novice policeman could deduce that if a burglar came armed with a crowbar, he might bring a pair of gloves.’

He studies me, but I take no notice. Men often do. ‘Remove that chip from your shoulder, and help.’

The remark takes me by surprise, but before I could answer. ‘No, thanks. I don’t want a coffee. This is only my sixth hour nonstop but I thought a victim might want me to come tonight, rather than tomorrow.’

I dislike being made to feel guilty. ‘Well...’ Words fail me. ‘Sorry.’ I put the kettle back on as I don’t like being justly criticised.

The kettle boils. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. I’m obliged to say that if my conduct might be a cause for complaint, I can get you a form to fill in.’

‘Bloody hell, you’re serious!’

‘And I shouldn’t have mentioned the coffee.’ He looks at the cup and the kettle.

‘I dislike a smart-arse copper getting the better of me.’

He smiles and I have no option but to laugh. ‘Here is the coffee.’ Opening the fridge, I take out cheese and from a cupboard I take biscuits. ‘Here.’ I smile. ‘Does Sherlock need food and drink?’ I point to the other room.

He shakes his head. ‘He is only just on duty.’ The cheese is quickly cut, and he takes a swig of hot coffee. ‘How old?’

The question is a surprise.

‘About fifty-five.’

‘Not far off.’

‘Why did you ask?’

‘He has a pension, but he stays on, because he does a good job.’ I screw my face.

‘I knew you would do that.’

He catches me out again. ‘Not for this type of work.’

‘So, what is he good at?’

‘It might surprise you to know. Turning youths away from crime. He visits youth clubs and is far more patient than I would ever be.’

‘Well, perhaps he enjoys being with young people.’

‘No, you’re pursuing the wrong line there. Year after year, people praise him how he kept them on the straight and narrow in their youth. He might not have succeeded, but there is never a bad word about him.’

‘Okay, sermon over.’ But I would talk differently to him next time. The two people that had helped in my youth were from different backgrounds, but they had done the same and kept me from a life of crime.

Finishing the cheese and biscuits, ‘I have a question.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘The simple question is why, but it holds many others.’

I could see he is thinking. ‘Why come to a small insignificant cottage in Limedale, equipped with house breaking tools?’

I attempt to reply, but he shakes his head, ‘And then not steal thousands of pounds of equipment, that would get good money.’

‘Perhaps...’

‘No, that won’t do. I know what you’re thinking, but they only stole a little camera. Why steal that and nothing else? I want answers!’

‘Well, I do not know...’

His eyes flash, ‘You have two choices.’

‘What?’

‘Either answer a whole load of questions...’

‘Such as?’

‘How a rough cropped hair lass in her mid-twenties has thousands of pounds of equipment.’

‘It’s my job...’

He smiles, ‘Let me finish.’ I close my mouth. ‘You have this equipment, but live in a rented cottage in a quarry village, with an old car outside. The situation does not add up.’

‘The alternative?’

‘Answer the normal questions to allow the completion of a report. Standard break-in, someone must have known the owner was a camera enthusiast.’

My face shows no expression.

‘Your choice?’

I keep my focus on his face. ‘Standard report.’

03

The deep noise of a horn sounds outside the cottage. The early morning sunbeams flood the room with light. I ignore the horn. The lane outside the cottage is never busy. The horn sounds for a second time. I snatch at my toast and twist my lips in irritation. Then a third time!

Crossing the room, I peer through the window to the lane. A huge quarry lorry is almost touching my car, which looks small in comparison.

The driver is looking at the cottage. I will open the front door. I walk from the cottage to the gravel near my car. I peer at the lorry driver in the cab, but I can only see a yellow hard hat and a bright fluorescent jacket. He shouts, but the diesel engine thudding drowns the words.

I cup my hand to my ear and shrug. Why speak to me? The enormous engine judders to a halt and the air brakes gush a deafening noise. The driver swings down from the cab and walks around the car. His heavy work boots thud on the road.

‘It is a long way out.’

‘You can pass. What’s the problem?’

He stands next to me and his presence dominates. Nearly a foot taller than me and I am not short for a female. ‘No problem... I normally do a drop of old rubble into the quarry once a week. I don’t mind slowing down to pass the car.’

I have a forthcoming busy day and don’t want to stand and chat.

‘There are about fifty drops soon. New drivers. It’s bonus payments, so they will do it fast.’

I understand his meaning. ‘Why the difference?’

‘Some type of emergency. The firm needs to move a thousand tons out of the way.’

I don’t understand why anyone would want to move a thousand tons of rock for an emergency. I curl my lip to show my disbelief.

He studies the car and then the cottage. ‘You’ve been here a few months.’

‘Is that anyone’s business but mine?’

‘Didn’t think you’d be friendly, but you are one of us. I’m Ben.’

Meeting a good-looking man for the first time during an unscheduled encounter and he had come to a conclusion which annoys me.

But my curiosity wins, but I do not change my tone, ‘Who’s us?’

‘Mid-twenties mates in the village. It isn’t easy. No decent jobs, houses too expensive, not much money.’ I wouldn’t make the same mistake as I did with the copper by being sarcastic. ‘We stick together, help our friends.’

I will ponder his approach as I can guess the real reason for him stopping. He would stare at me and then ask me for a drink. Lifting my face, he studies the car, not me.

‘Nice car.’

‘No. A bloody clapped-out old banger that will only go in a good mood.’

‘But it is an old Nova, they are brill!’

Peering at the back of the car, ‘You’re right, it’s a Nova.’

‘Didn’t you know that?’

‘No, it’s a car. I don’t need to know what it is called because I don’t intend to marry it.’

He smiles, ‘Good answer!’ Then he shakes his head.

I never like that mannerism from men because they are making a judgement about me.

‘Do you know Ryan?’

‘No.’

‘He’s a mate and runs the garage.’

‘What garage?’

He grins. ‘It’s easy. Go down the lane. There is only one turning before you reach the main road.’

‘So?’

‘A garage with a prominent sign, Ryans.’

‘Yeah, I’ve seen it.’

‘He’ll sort your car. One of my mates.’ Without waiting for a reply. ‘Time to dump some rock. See you about. Move the car if you don’t want it wrecked. You can park at Ryan’s.’

Taking large, quick strides, he leaps into the cab of his lorry. The engine bellows into life. With a wave of the hand, the air brakes hiss and he pulls away.

While I had other things to think about, the garage might be an idea, as I couldn’t afford to be without the car.

04

I turn to enter the cottage, but the juddering of the lorry as the brakes sound captures my attention. A bright new grey Mercedes tries to pass the lorry and come along the lane. The lorry driver leans from his window. ‘Just take it steady!’

The car inches past the lorry. Clearing the restriction, the car comes quickly along the narrow dry stone wall lane. The registration number of cars had just changed. The Mercedes is new.

Gliding to a halt in front of me, a forty-year-old woman winds down the window. ‘Zoe, I’ve come to help.’

‘It’s wonderful to see you, Eleanor and it’s your first visit since I moved in here. Come in.’

‘But I’ve come to help clear up the mess.’

‘You’re wonderful, Eleanor.’ Stepping from the car she is wearing a smart cream blouse and a light blue summer skirt, with high-heeled sandals.

‘I’ve not started yet, but the cleaning can wait. Come in, we can talk.’

‘Absolutely not. We will work. I’ve brought...’ Opening her Armani handbag, she produces a pair of rubber gloves.

‘No words can describe you, Eleanor! Come in.’

‘Eleanor!’ A waft of strong disinfectant hits my nostrils.

‘You don’t know who’s been in here, but we’ll have the room clean in no time.’

I had exhausted the reasons for not trying to deep clean a room in a cream blouse and summer skirt, but to no avail. The desk that Eleanor is cleaning vibrates from the power of the strokes. ‘Take it easy or you’ll tire yourself out.’

Grinning, she turns. ‘It’s nothing compared to removing the mud from a seventeen-hand hunter that has completed a cross-country course.’

I shake my head at the response as the right words defeat me. ‘Thanks for coming.’

‘You told me about the break-in on the phone.’

‘Yeah, well. It wasn’t a hint.’

‘No, of course. You wouldn’t do that.’

‘The break-in...’

‘No! no! Don’t tell me. There are many things that I don’t need to know. And that is one.’ I couldn’t help but smile at Eleanor whose face turns serious.

‘What is it?’

‘Can you come this afternoon?’

‘Yes, although what you expect is beyond me.’

‘You’re an action photographer, aren’t you?’

I nod. ‘There won’t be a lot of action at an agricultural show.’

05

I greet Eleanor after lunch at the entrance to the show. ‘I’ve brought a press pass.’

Eleanor frowns. ‘You won’t need that.’

‘It has ribbons on it.’ Eleanor pins the VIP pass to my jacket and looks me up and down.

I can guess her comment. ‘This is the only pair of trousers that aren’t jeans, and my new collared tee shirt. It’s likely to be muddy, so I put on boots.’

‘Quite! Thought about a skirt?’

‘Wore one once in primary school, never took to them.’ I peer at Eleanor’s immaculate skirt and ankle boots.

Eleanor smiles, ‘Come on, it’s better than I expected. Thanks for trying.’

I do not take offence as I never would from Eleanor, but I stare at the badge. ‘VIP?’

‘Quite right, too. You can go anywhere, no one will stop you. I’ve told the President of the Show you’ll be taking pictures. Some people might become techy, but refer them to the President.’

I could not believe anyone would get tetchy about a farming show.

‘But if you could take a picture of the President’s prize bull, well...’

‘Eleanor, I didn’t bring a long lens and I’ve only the camera that was with me yesterday, so it wasn’t included in the wrecking spree and the little snappy thing that they didn’t nick as it was in my pocket.’

We walk together across the grass towards the centre of the show. Eleanor stops, ‘Have you been to an agricultural show?’

I shake my head.

Eleanor smiles. ‘I will regret asking, but have you ever been to the countryside?’

‘Not a lot. How do you know so quickly?’

‘When you mentioned the long lens. The bull will stand next to you.’

‘You are joking.’

I scrutinise Eleanor’s face, and she gives a wicked smile in return.

I stop to look at a sheep. ‘That sheep’s eyes are weird.’

‘I thought they would appeal.’

‘Sheep’s eyes?’

‘When I look in the sports sections of newspapers, your photos of the action concentrate on the eyes.’

‘Yes, they often do... Ah, I understand.’

‘I’ve jobs to do to help the President. The sheep dogs are starting.’

‘What?’

‘Go over there. I’m sure you will see something.’

‘Okay, meet later.’

‘Then I will introduce you to the bull.’

‘No way!’

‘How was the show?’ Eleanor approaches with a smile.

‘Brill. Good shots. Even the bull! Someone else introduced me!’

‘That’s good. We will go to the President’s office for the fees.’

‘I’ve an invoice, as you suggested.’

Eleanor sneers, ‘Two hundred pounds!’

‘Yes, but...’

‘Come on.’ She leads to the President’s office, a large temporary caravan.

Eleanor greets everyone. ‘Zoe’s forgotten to bring the invoice but will send it in the post.’

‘Okay, that’s fine. How much?’

‘Five hundred guineas.’

‘Okay.’ The woman behind the desk writes the details without a question.

Eleanor touches my arm. ‘I need to ask a favour.’

‘Do you want me to photograph a tractor?’

‘No, there is a kiddies’ party, nephews and nieces, I want to snap a few, but I’ve forgotten a camera.’